Worst Valentines Day since 1929

As Valentine’s Day approaches, I am accosted by torturous memories of last
year’s Hallmark holiday.  In all honesty, I’m more inclined to reminisce on my
18th birthday bash, which I spent in a nursing home’s recreation room, playing
scrabble with a woman who legitimately thought she was Rosie the Riveter.  But,
for your entertainment, and at my own expense, I give you this account of the
worst Valentine’s Day since 1929.
Valentine’s Day is all about being endowed with obligatory displays of affection.  
Last Valentine’s Day I was endowed with little other than self-esteem handicaps
and intolerable images that will haunt my memory until I’m as brainsick as
Rosie, my scrabble contender.
The only Valentine’s Day card I received last year was from a flamboyantly gay
cashier at Golden Pantry.  His name is Gregory, and he has been smitten with me
ever since I started frequenting his gas station depot.  The card he gave me was
hastily crafted out of an old receipt and it read: Stroke Me.  
I obliged him and gingerly stroked his shoulder. Starry-eyed, he gave me a pack
of cigarettes and a box of ribbed condoms free of charge.  These were tangible
tidings of a tolerable, if not pleasant, Valentine’s Day; tidings that were crushed
as soon as I went to my girlfriend’s place to try out my new condoms.
I walked in her apartment to find my best friend balls-deep in her loins.  They
were humping the fuck out of each other on the couch to a TMC screening of
When Harry Met Sally, but, alas, the adulterous sex-companions were too
involved in sweaty pelvis-plugging to appreciate Billy Crystal’s quirky lines or to
detect my presence.    
My girlfriend’s moans of pleasure were exponentially louder than I had ever
heard them.  Disgraced, I left the apartment and ventured to my grandmother’s
house. She always knows how to comfort me in times of emotional turmoil.
Fortune cursed me once again when I arrived at Nanna’s place. I crossed the
threshold of what was once a welcoming sanctuary of therapeutic leisure.  Upon
entering, I witnessed the most unholy of things.  Nanna and Grampy were
engaged in Valentine’s Day whoopee on my grandfather’s recliner.  I’ve never
seen that recliner rock so violently; the image of my grandfather’s knickered
feet convulsively shaking as Nanna rode him will forever haunt my dreams.
At this point, I acknowledged the only reasonable course of action: to get
sloppy drunk in a freshman bar and take home a floozy.  My slutty girlfriend,
my counterfeit best friend, and my sexually-functioning grandparents were all
having ritualistic Valentine’s Day sex; why shouldn’t I?
Downtown, at the freshman bar, a mildly attractive girl mentioned that I looked
like Robert Pattinson, the heartthrob from the vampire thriller, Twilight.  Taking
this as a compliment, I engaged in flirtatious dialogue.  She cut me off and told
me that I was an emo faggot for knowing who Robert Pattinson was.  Right as
she dashed my hopes of making her my random hook-up, the Asian flower lady
(that frequents bars with shoddy sales pitches) apparated out of thin air.  The
flower lady asked me if I wanted to buy a rose for my “pretty little Valentine”,
pointing to the chick who had crushed what was left of my dignity. The flower
lady eagerly awaited my answer with her entrepreneurial smile, and I left.
I decided to go home and check my Facebook for any virtual Valentine-gift
icons.  There were none. The only wall post I’d received that day was from my
roommate, reminding me that the cable bill was past due (My roommate only
leaves his room when his mini fridge is empty, so our only means of
communication is Facebook).   
I decided to call a sex hotline to break the lonesome silence, and, of course,
fortune spit in my eye yet again; I got the one hotline attendant with a severe
speech impediment.  She sounded like she had cerebral palsy, and she had this
lisp that reminded me of the snake from the Robin Hood cartoon.  I hung up.
In a desperate attempt to find emotional solace, I went to the Golden Pantry to
see if Gregory was working.  He was the only person that had shown me any
compassion all day, so I made him a construction paper card with glitter and
sequins.  It read: Flame on, Diva Man.  I even signed it with my real name, and I
scribbled my phone number on the back.  He was right tickled.